My name is Sally, and I’m emotionally autistic.

Image Flickr/Kberberi
One of my friends likes to describe me as ‘emotionally autistic’*.

He’s joking (I think) but it would be fair to say that I’m a reasonably private person.

I’m opinionated, and I’ve never knowingly passed up an opportunity for heated debate, but when it comes to the warm, squishy complicated business of fears, feelings and so on, I’m much more likely to go home and throw crockery against the wall than to talk it out.

I might skirt around the edges, but I really don’t feel any desire to blog about the years spent in foster care, or how I felt when my husband cheated on me, or the day the dog peed on my brand new sofa (I’ll let you decide which was more traumatic). I’m not the blogger who is going to post about my fear of commitment, or falling out with that friend who turned out to be a crazy stalker lady.

It’s just that lately, I’ve been feeling a bit inadequate about my little blog.

In recent weeks, as we’ve been checking nominations for the MADs, I’ve read some amazingly powerful pieces of writing on blogs. Things that have inspired me, things that have moved me to tears, words that have illuminated the darkest corners of people’s lives and souls.

Every time I open Google Reader lately, someone else is putting some incredibly personal, painful experience into words. As Tara from Sticky Fingers commented somewhere yesterday, every week we’re learning more about these bloggers we love. I admire them, and I admire the talent that lets them portray their experiences so powerfully. It’s amazing. It really is. It’s just not me.

Part of me is just too Northern to post that sort of thing. Perhaps part of me is just too scared. And part of me thinks I haven’t really got it in me.

I don’t particularly have body issues. I’m not going to win any modelling contests any time soon but I tend to think if you have four working limbs, five working senses and a couple of brain cells on top of that, you should count yourself lucky. I’m not always happy, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never been touched by depression. My only chronic health issue is an allergy to feathers. Hardly rock and roll.

So while I read your amazing blogs and I love them all, I can’t help but feel that my post about not being able to put together a Transformer (and don’t think I didn’t spot Liz showing off in the comments there) looks a bit weedy in comparison. My blog is mostly about pirates and picnics with the odd bit of monkey porn thrown in for good measure.

Seriously, is it enough? How much does a blogger have to reveal to engage with their readers, do you think? (Just for the record, Karin, I’m not suggesting a stripping-themed Vlog It Challenge for next month) What are the things that make you feel like you have got to know more about a blogger? And where do you draw the line about what you do and don’t share? Does it change?

If it helps to increase my “revealing” credentials, I will tell you that I chatted to Flea’s head teacher today for five whole minutes and only as I walked out of school did I realise that I hadn’t fastened the top three buttons on my shirt this morning. Oops.

* Not intended as an insult to people who are ACTUALLY autistic.

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